Fantastic Mr. Fox
2009 (USA / UK)
Director: Wes Anderson
Viewed: November 29, 2009
Format: Theatrical Print (St. Louis Cinemas Chase Park Plaza Cinema)
Wes Anderson’s distinctive authorial signatures—the fussy, nostalgia-rich production design, the playful movements of his camera, the droll labeling of chapters and even shots–has at times been derided as a dollhouse aesthetic, more suited to playthings than real people. It’s not a criticism I share, but there you have it. One might say that Anderson’s latest feature, Fantastic Mr. Fox, responds to such objections by taking them at face value, as it was made using literal dolls. Well, stop-motion puppets, to be precise. A more natural fit between a particular style of animation and a living auteur would be hard to imagine, as Anderson’s propensity for treating every shot as a tableau is given its most ebullient expression yet. There’s something damn near perfect about the marriage of Mr. Fox’s old-school animation, which heartily embraces its aura of toybox unreality, to the director’s natural affinities. Anderson is an artist who thrives on meticulous attention to detail and on making every shot count, and animation provides ample opportunity to indulge such impulses.
2009 (USA)
Agnès Varda cooks up a delicious slice of cinematic heresy with her latest work, The Beaches of Agnès. Could it be that the most invigorating film to emerge from the French New Wave’s aged auteurs in recent years is a whimsical, affecting, exquisitely crafted documentary memoir? Octogenarian Varda, who was the odd woman out within the New Wave’s Boys Club, has created an intensely personal, utterly frank, and wholly lovely film. With a mischievous smile that hints at both her warmth and her restless intellect, Varda narrates the story of her own life. Self-aware yet never apologetic, Beaches strikes the tone of a shared journey. We feel the director’s bemusement, wistfulness, and melancholy as she tours the locales and visits with the people that shaped her art. With Beaches, Varda decisively triumphs over peers such as Rivette, Chabrol, and Resnais, whose late works (The Duchess of Langeais, A Girl Cut in Two, Private Fears in Public Places) have been trifling and ham-fisted. The beauty of Varda’s film is the beauty of herself, presented honestly: a confident, relentlessly curious artist, whose life of achievement has not been diminished by her probing uncertainty or her persistent grief.
There are not many film-makers that simultaneously demand the utmost patience and attentiveness from their audience and also hew to scrupulous realism in their work. This unusual pairing of qualities is what defines the downright vexing films of Argentine director Lisandro Alonso, who has made four features that exemplify the term “acquired taste.” His latest is Liverpool, which trades the rain forests of Los Muertos for dreary, snowbound Tierra del Fuego. Structurally and thematically, however, this new film is close kin to his 2004 feature, as both train their gaze on a man on a familial quest. Here the protagonist is the lanky, inscrutable Farrel (Juan Fernández), a cargo ship worker who journeys inland to find his ailing mother. The delicacy of Alonso’s observational power is what makes Liverpool such a unusual species of film, but it unfortunately suffers from a suffocating emotional inertness. Most filmgoers will likely find Alonso’s style tedious, if not excruciating, principally due to his seemingly emphatic lingering on banalities. In fact, Liverpool never emphasizes; it only invites observation. It is a grimy, ragged, uncompromising work, but so taxing that only the most disciplined cinephile would dare tackle it more than once.
Claire Denis’ newest film, 35 Shots of Rum, exhibits a remarkable humanism that takes its time uncoiling and working its spell on you. With an unhurried and affectionate tone, the film weaves the story of a sagging Parisian apartment complex, where widower Lionel (Alex Descas) and his adult daughter Jospehine (Mati Diop) alternately resist and welcome the changes that life brings. Denis demonstrates a profound emotional grace in her approach, coaxing us to share her love of her characters by permitting us to see them without pretense or flattering poses. There is no cloying demand that we share Jo’s fondness for her father. Rather, Denis bestows that fondness on the viewer by shooting Descas in a way that captures the gentleness and pain of his inner life. 35 Shots of Rum succeeds because of its modesty: there is no sense that Denis has constructed this intimate tale for our benefit, and its simple themes are wondrously emergent. Only a shocking and gratuitous development late in the film mars the pleasures of Denis’ empathic observational power, but she rights things with a melancholy, ambiguous coda that nonetheless underlines her story with admirable precision.
Noir doesn’t come much more languid than Three Monkeys, a moody Turkish thriller that concerns itself as much with hidden ugliness as it does with naked emotional upheavals. Director Nuri Bilge Ceylan sketches this story of loyalty and lust with the thinnest of narrative lines, but via a style that practically howls its themes to the moon. Hence the florid, queasy detail captured with his HD video: slick sweat on greasy skin, lifeless urban spaces of yellow and green, and cloudy skies that seem almost bruised. There are dabs of magical realism as well, as a harrowing specter lurches through and clings to the lives of the principals. Shut up in a cramped apartment but miles away from each other, loutish husband Eyüp, dissatisfied wife Hacer, and troubled son Ismail contend with a maze of lies, all flowing from Eyüp’s fateful decision to take the fall for his boss’s hit-and-run accident. Ceylan doesn’t add sufficient dramatic energy to the proceedings to justify the film’s ostentatious pacing, and Three Monkeys never feels like it connects with his thematic ambitions. Still, as a lusciously stylized–and often deliciously ugly–glimpse of human folly, it’s satisfactory.
Christian Petzold’s lean, sordid little thriller positions itself as a successor to the works of Hitchcock and Wilder, but its most direct ancestor is The Postman Always Rings Twice, to the point that Jerichow might be regarded a near-remake. Here the Frank Chambers part is a penniless Afghan war veteran, Thomas, played with a distinctly Germanic heat by the chiseled Benno Fürmann (also appearing in North Face at this year’s Festival). Recruited into the employ of snack bar entrepreneur Ali (Hilmi Sözer) through the sort of happenstance that seems endemic to noir, Thomas inevitably hooks up with the boss’ wife, Laura (Nina Hoss), a ragged blond who seems like more trouble than she’s worth. Petzold’s script is admirably sparing and suitably tense, especially given that the bulk of story’s action occurs in sun-kissed daylight. The film is resolutely focused on its core conflict, barely permitting any characters other than its three principals to intrude. Its main sin is that it’s a film in search of a purpose. At bottom, Jerichow is a skillful retread of territory that’s already been extensively explored, and Petzold doesn’t bring anything fresh other than some unconventional (but not unexpected) twists in the third act.
Amos Gitai’s camera tightly frames his characters in his Holocaust-cum-family drama, One Day You’ll Understand. The film flirtis with a claustrophobic atmosphere, yet it remains distractingly distant from the unfolding events. In its slackest moments, Gitai’s style exhibits no feeling other than idle curiosity, a odd flaw given the intensely personal character of the story. That story centers on the prying of Victor (Hippolyte Girardot) into his family’s muddled history, which thrusts together Catholics and Russian Jews in Nazi-occupied France with predictably tragic results. Unfortunately, his elderly mother Rivka (a magisterial Jeanne Moreau, one the film’s bright spots) is reluctant to speak of the past. The film’s primary problem is that in trying to weave together two substantial thematic threads–the veiled character of post-WWII Jewish identity in France, and the challenges of birthrights–Gitai fails to give either a sufficiently rich treatment, and the results feels fumbling and hollow. A late scene, wherein Girardot wanders his mother’s flat as it is dismantled for its valuables, plays as a pale echo of Summer Hours. One Day You’ll Understand lacks the focus, grace, and delight for character and space that made Olivier Assayas’ film an exquisite exploration of a mundane subject.
It was only last year that Zhang Ke Jia’s sad, sedate, occasionally whimsical little masterwork, Still Life, landed on American shores. And here we are again with another difficult, gorgeous film, 24 City, that continues to express both Jia’s profound affection for his countrymen and his ambivalence towards China’s modernization. Here Jia adopts a blended documentary-fiction approach, wherein his camera explores the ruins of an munitions complex as it is transformed into luxury high rises, and interviews former factory employees and actors posing as employees. Even more than Still Life, 24 City is a film enamored–in a mournful sort of way–with the industrial and post-industrial spaces of China, echoing Jennifer Baichwal’s ominous and beautiful documentary, Manufactured Landscapes. The wondrous enigma of Jia’s talent is evident here, manifest in his blending of cool observation and authentic, piercing emotion. Grave and challenging, 24 City is a testament to the director’s novel vision, a succesion of sensory pleasures that prods expectations. Oddly enough, perhaps the most perplexing aspect of the film is its “Ocean’s Twelve moment”: the use of Joan Chen to portray a women who is known for her resemblance to Joan Chen.
Triteness wins out over heartfelt sentiment in Cherien Dabis’ take on the Immigrant Experience Film, Amreeka, a by-the-numbers celebration of tolerance, love, perseverance, etc., etc., etc. Here the immigrants in question are divorcee Muna (Nisreen Faour) and her teen son Fadi (Melkar Muallem), Palestinians who journey to small-town Illinois where they settle in awkwardly with the Westernized family of Muna’s sister (Hiam Abbass, whom I adore… but Christ, can we give another Arabic actress a shot, please?). Amreeka hits all the standard indie drama and comedy notes, but its approach is graceless and its insights insufficient to warrant a retreading of such familiar territory. The narrative is tightly constructed, but utterly predictable, and the messaging is so overwarmed–Racism sucks! Family is important!–as to be off-putting. Faour, who fills Muna with eager-to-please earnestness and anxious confusion, is likable enough, so much that the film’s best moments of humor come courtesy of her, while those at her expense just seem mean-spirited. The film’s occasional wit enlivens its otherwise bland turns, but next to a keenly observed marvel like In Between Days, or even Sundance darlings like The Visitor and Frozen River, this is tired stuff.
Director Joe Berlinger has had a uneven career–from the definitive West Mephis 3 documentary Paradise Lost to the bafflingly ill-considered Blair Witch 2–but he’s never produced a work of socially-conscious agitprop like Crude. While the film hews to the general tone of slicker docs like The Corporation and Food, Inc., Berlinger has a much tighter focus. Specifically, Crude follows the fifteen-plus-year lawsuit that has pitted Chevron-Texaco against the native peoples of Ecuador allegedly poisoned by the company’s drilling wastes. Strictly as a vehicle for raising awareness about a critical Third World environmental battle, Crude is absorbing and grimly presented stuff, with Berlinger avoiding the smugness or breeziness that plagues many progressive Issues Documentaries. Content to let his subjects speak for themselves, the director presents the story without narration, adding only title cards to explain factual tidbits. Accordingly, Berlinger can be forgiven the romantic character his rough style lends to this David-and-Goliath conflict, and even his dewy delight when celebrities such as the President of Ecuador and Sting get involved in the fight. Ultimately, the plaintiffs couldn’t ask for a more straightforward, concise statement of the political, cultural, and emotional dimensions of their case than Crude.
In recent years, Latin American auteurs have apparently been paying attention to Asian film-makers such as Zhang Ke Jia and Tsai Ming-Liang, tossing out those directors’ affection for surrealism, and delivering a new Spanish-language Cinema of Patience (to coin a term), a mode exemplified by challenging works such as The Minder and Los Muertos. With its static camera work, lengthy shots, and cut-to-black punctuation, Lake Tahoe fits comfortably within this current. It goes without saying that Eimbcke’s deliberate and often slyly funny film, which chronicles twenty-four hours in the life of a Yucatan youth, is not for everyone. The remove that Eimbcke establishes from his subject lends Lake Tahoe the tone of an uneventful slice-of-life snapshot, but a moment’s consideration reveals that for Juan (Diego Cataño), this single day is remarkably pivotal. He may be a bit of a cipher, but, the film’s style notwithstanding, his story is an identifiable mini-odyssey about indignities, opportunities, and reversals. The result feels a bit slight, but Eimbcke admirably maintains a mood that is both biting and yet warm-hearted. Lake Tahoe’s aesthetic might be stripped-down Weerasethakul, but its worldview is distinctly Coen, transplanted with emotional authority to a dusty Mexican town.